


It's Not If, It's When

by KelpieMomma



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Am I anthropomorphizing Roach? Yes. This is fanfic. I do what I want., Both of them talk to Roach like a person, Ciri appears for about two seconds, Gen, Jaskier talks to Roach like Geralt talks to Roach, Roach Ships It (The Witcher), Roach has five horsey injuries and her boys take care of her, Roach is Too Good for You, Roach knows what they need even if they don't
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-02
Updated: 2020-03-02
Packaged: 2021-03-12 21:16:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22986319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KelpieMomma/pseuds/KelpieMomma
Summary: Five times Roach was cared for by her herd, and one time she cared for them.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Roach, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion & Roach
Comments: 41
Kudos: 268





	It's Not If, It's When

**Author's Note:**

> Title based on the phrase "When working with horses, it's not if you'll get hurt, it's when and how badly."
> 
> (See end of notes for Roach Injury warnings)
> 
> I'm a big Horse Girl. I've loved them all my life, been riding for about a decade and a half now, have had a horse for nine years, and let me tell you
> 
> horses could be covered in bubble wrap and STILL get hurt. I'm no vet tech, but I've done my fair share of taking care of puncture wounds, colics, and an assortment of other injuries. And I thought- Geralt has had horses for quite some time. He's had to care for all sorts of injuries, I bet. Why not write about some?
> 
> Roach is a somewhat stereotypical red mare- for those who don't know what that is, a red mare is generally considered aggressive as all hell. Biting, kicking, just a huge, dominant personality. I know a red mare who is THE stereotypical red mare, and if you so much as look at her while she's in her stall she will try to reach out and bite you.
> 
> I wrote this in less than a day, pretty much just a stream of consciousness. I hope it makes sense and I hope you enjoy it! I had fun writing it (even though I have two other fics to work on) and currently have a bit of a coda to this fic in the works as well, and some ideas for further 5+1 Roach fics bc
> 
> I love Roach.
> 
> Please forgive any mis-characterization- I've never actually seen the Witcher, never played games or read the books, and I honestly have no intent on doing any of it. I'm just here for the emotionally repressed himbo, his feral otter bard, and the horse that puts up with their BS.

  * _Bound_

She was young. Not  _ so _ young that she was close to weaning age - she’d been off her mother for several seasons- but still so young that the world remained new and big and  _ frightening _ . Still young enough that she had yet to experience all the horrors that humans could exhibit. There was a halter on her face that had not been removed for at least three seasons. It dug into her fur and skin and made her  _ angry _ . Though the hands that brushed her were soft, they didn’t ease the ache of rope digging into bone. When they came near, she would snap. Turn her haunches and kick out. Whatever training may have been given with the halter was nonexistent due to the tightness.

Her aggressive behavior had her being pulled behind a wagon- ears pinned, tail swishing in irritation, and  _ her _ doing her best to not be pulled along. She, with her slim-tall build, was no match for the heavy-wood of the wagon and the two tall-stout drafts pulling it. But she  _ tried _ . There was noise up ahead and the wagon stopped. She did not, now purposefully walking up to the wagon and shoving her chest against it.

_ Drag me along like that, _ she snapped her teeth,  _ when you release me from this drag you will regret hitching me in the beginning! _

There was chatter from ahead, chatter she paid no attention to. She grabbed the rope in her teeth, pulling back now, trying to break it. Despite its age it was strong and did not fall victim to her anger. Footsteps, heavier than the ones of the man who’d tied her to the wagon, approached. She ignored them until a shadow crossed her face, and then she dropped the rope and lunged. She was prevented from making contact by the too-tight rope on her face and the too-short rope attached to the wagon. She swung her hips around instead, letting both her hind legs fly to show her displeasure. There was a quiet noise, almost like the wuffle her mother would make when she thought, and then the footsteps went back to the front of the wagon. There was speech-noise again, a metallic sound, and then those light-heavy footsteps returned. Before she could lash out once more her mind was given to ease, and she relaxed.

“That’s a girl,” she heard a low twoleg-voice say, “good girl. Steady there for me, yeah?” The tension from the short-wagon-rope fell, and then

for the first time in seasons

her face was free.

The pressure vanished, the tight, squeezing pain of rope-in-fur-on-bone  _ was gone _ . Rope was wrapped around her neck instead, not tight enough to choke but tight enough that she let herself be guided by it. Her hooves were heavy with the weight of relaxation of her mind. She drifted.

When she woke again, the rope was still around her neck. It hung low, dangling by her hooves, and there were large hands stroking down her face and neck. The pain of where the ropes had dug in for seasons was eased, something  _ sticky _ messing up her fur, but it was cool and it did not hurt. She sighed and leaned into the touch.

“He said you were bad, said you were too mean for much. Had bridles for them big drafts but not for you, hm? Only had that small rope. It’s alright, girl, it’s gone now. Not gonna have you bound like that again, promise. All that pressure on you, digging in like that- must’ve hurt somethin’ fierce, and he didn’t even notice. No wonder you were so aggressive with something like that on you. I would’ve been too.” The voice spoke gently, quietly. It was rough, a little hoarse- someone wasn’t used to speaking. She let out a soft nose-blow, her lips flapping as she let her head hang.

“That’s it. We’ll rest here tonight, and then we’ll be on the road tomorrow Roach.”

  
  


  * _Laceration  
  
_

His name was Geralt.

He was not human. He was a Witcher. And he was  _ hers _ . 

Humans were cruel, uncaring beasts. They stuck her in stalls too small for her, fed her hay that was rotting and moldy, and when they found out that she was  _ his _ and he was  _ hers _ they would come into her stall with knives and torches and teeth bared. They would come into her stall smelling like sour and bitter, rotting fruit and anger. The first time she had not known what to expect, and the first press of sharp-hot pain against her leg had her  _ roaring _ in pain and anger.

What they had expected of a Witcher’s mare, she did not know. Meek, tired, abused perhaps? They had not expected her- had not expected  _ muscle _ and  _ anger _ and  _ do not touch _ in the redness of her hide, in the black of her hooves. Her teeth flashed and snapped and she whirled, letting the strength in her back legs fly. They backed up, angry still but now uncertain, scared.

They left her stall door open.

Roach was not stupid. They expected that, beasts like their own who were broken-spirited and sway-backed, ridden so hard and so far that their hooves were the size of their riders fists, that no shoes could save them. 

Roach charged out the door with a war cry. She was no frightened filly, cowering in the corner. She had come from hell-on-hooves mother, born in the wild and never truly tamed. Red as flame, burning just as bright to the day she died. She was the mare of the Witcher, Geralt, who had fought a brigande of bandits and suffered the title of Butcher. She was  _ Roach _ , swift and clever and with the same spirit of her mother, who had come from the place where her halter had almost become part of her face but had not let that break her.

Her teeth made contact, clenched down around one man’s arm. She heard him cry out, swear, and shook him like she had seen bears shake their fish. Behind her, Roach heard one man try to approach and she turned her head, lined him up, and  _ struck _ . Her hoof made solid contact and he went down, falling into a wall. She released the wailing twoleg in her grip, spotting the other three running for the stable door. Roach did not wait.

Ears flat to her skull, teeth bared like the wolf that rode her, she followed. They clambered out the door, getting caught between the heavy wood, and she  _ was not forgiving _ . She ran them over indiscriminately, tripping over the bodies but not stopping,  _ not stopping _ , until a hand wrapped up in the short mane of her wither. Roach prepared to rear, prepared to strike, when a word was whispered and the voice registered and she quieted. Not docile, never docile, but the war path ended.

Geralt stood beside her, golden eyes narrowed to slits as he took in the bruised, broken, and bloody figures of the men who had tried to harm her. Another human was standing in the door of the inn, hand over mouth and eyes wide like a foal who’d spotted its shadow for the first time.

“Is that a horse or a demon?” The person from the inn questioned in a breathless voice. Geralt only grunted in return, turing to Roach and running his hands along her body- neck, side, legs, belly, flank. When he came to the bloody cut he stopped. His touch was gentle, much more than any human would believe, but Roach heard the shake in his breath. Roach was not a trusting mare, but they had outnumbered her and nearly hobbled her for life. If the knife had reached tendon, she would have been good for nothing but meat. Geralt took in a breath, and led her to the inn-person. They skittered back, afraid of her, and Roach let out a heavy breath.

_ Good _ . If they were afraid, they would not touch her.

“We’re leaving. Tonight. I want my coin back, I want my tack brought out here to me, and I want provision for tomorrow.” Geralt ordered. The inn-person looked like they would argue, but Roach snapped her teeth and stomped a hoof and they squeaked like a mouse with its tail caught and fled into the inn.

That was the first time, but not the only. Not the worst. But no matter what- no matter who touched her, who approached her, who tried to  _ hurt  _ her to hurt her Witcher, Geralt heard. He found her, calmed her, and would clean the blood from her pelt, would coat the wound in sticky-smelly salve. He would murmur words to her, hold her even when she jerked reflexively, kicked out unintentionally. Geralt would smooth a hand down her side, soothing her, and move quickly, gently.

Roach never feared the villagers, the monsters, because Geralt was  _ there _ and where he was, she was  _ safe _ .

_   
  
_

  * _Bruise  
  
_

The bard was an amusing annoyance. She had distrusted him initially- had watched Geralt get off of her and strike him as she would a colt behaving too rambunctiously. The lesson was learned, though- the bard did not utter ‘Butcher’ around Geralt again. When they would go into a town, a village, that had yet to hear his music, when the word ‘ _ Butcher _ ’ would hit the air in a hiss, it was Geralt who tensed, but it was the songbird who turned into a stallion defending his band. Her ears would pin, her expression tensing, but it was Jaskier whose eyes would narrow, whose mouth would get tight, and who would begin proclaiming Geralt’s good deeds. When stones flew, it was Jaskier who followed their trajectory back to those who let them lose and would fly as true as an arrow to tangle with the pitcher. Those nights, after Geralt had pulled him from the tangle of fists and feet and dragged him to an inn, she could hear him from wherever she had been stalled, singing louder and more energetically, as though he could change the minds of the people of the land ( _ morons _ ) with just his pretty words and voice.

Roach did not like people, did not like men especially, but Jaskier… Jaskier was no  _ man _ . Jaskier, she decided after hearing and watching him leap to Geral’s defense, was one of  _ hers _ . ‘ _ Don’t touch Roach _ ’ flew out the window when Roach, herself, began to approach Jaskier. When she wanted the apple from his hands, or would express her displeasure at a song by pulling his long, shaggy hair between her lips and teeth to gently,  _ gently _ because he was so  _ fragile _ , tug on. When she could feel Geralt tensing on her back, or beside her, because Jaskier was speaking too much, too loudly, when he tuned his lute and it hurt her ears, and she would turn her head around and carefully wrap her mouth around his arm.

No one could touch Roach except for Geralt and Jaskier.

When Jaskier was gone, it was always unfortunately quiet. Geralt would talk more, but he did not say much. She may be a mare but she was not stupid, and she could tell when he longed for the easy companionship that the bard brought, despite the fact he could not express it well. Not after the times he had been left with thorns practically sewn into his metaphorical saddle blanket, rubbing against his skin. Seasons passed faster, more pleasantly, when Jaskier was around. There was the long one, though- the one where it seemed they had hardly been away from Jaskier for half a season when Geralt became restless. When he became unnerved at night, no matter how she would quietly whicker to reassure him. Not even her presence could calm her witcher, and before she quiet understood it she found herself standing next to a tree, watching Geralt fish.

She whinnied when she smelled Jaskier approaching, and he slipped her some sugarcubes - bless his coltish heart, buttering her up as he did as though she was not yet fond of him and he needed to earn her trust - before approaching Geralt. With someone else to watch him, Roach relaxed.

And then, not too long after, began to panic. There was blood in the air, and Geralt smelling worried, and Jaskier smelling hurt. She shifted her weight, pawed at the ground, and looked around. There was an unnatural wind that had her pinning her ears distrustfully. More than that, there was Geralt pulling Jaskier towards her. Jaskier did not look  _ right _ , blood dripping down his mouth and something growing within his throat. Roach wanted to rip it out with her teeth, but that was not the way it would heal. Geralt pulled Jaskier up behind him, and Roach was moving before he had given her the command to. Normally this would have resulted in him stopping her, backing her up, making her stand - because Roach was many things, and she truly did love her rider, but she was still a horse, still a mare, and still had to test the waters now and then to see if he would remain in charge of their small, transient herd - but the urgency had him letting her do it.

She ran, as smooth but as fast as she could, because Jaskier was having trouble breathing and she did not want to hurt him more. She did not stumble, her feet and stride sure and true. They came to a camp and she thought, when Geralt dragged Jaskier into a tent, that if they did not come out together then at least Geralt would come out looking relieved. Roach stood, sides heaving as the camp continued bustling around her. What felt like an eternity later Geralt returned, carrying Jaskier once again. Another twoleg followed, mounting a grey mare while Geralt hoisted himself and Jaskier onto her back once again. Geralt steered her after the grey, both mares quickly squeezed into a fast cater that bordered on a gallop. Only once did she trip, the grey mare spooking at a  _ shadow _ , and Roach had to swerve around her so that they didn’t run into one another.

When they stopped she hardly paid attention to their surroundings except to watch Geralt and Jaskier. She wanted to follow but now that she had stopped, her sides coated in sweat and lather, she felt it. Her right foreleg  _ hurt _ . She lifted it off the ground, her expression tight when she put weight on it. The twoleg left behind by  _ her _ twolegs noticed and approached her, but Roach was quick to pin her ears and open her mouth with the threat of a bite coming his way if he thought he could touch her. The grey mare took a few steps away from Roach, and she snorted at the behavior.

_ Coward, _ she thought. That mare would never survive Roach’s job.

Geralt came back as the sun was going down, smelling relieved. Roach lifted her head, turning it as she looked for her other twoleg. His expression was stony but there was a distinct lack of tension in his shoulders. When he approached, Roach bumped her head against his chest, waiting until he scratched at the base of her mane before relaxing at all.

“He’ll be alright,” Geralt murmured into her ear, “we got him here in time. You got him here fast enough. Thank you, Roach.”

“Your mare’s leg- she wouldn’t let me look at it, but she’s been holding her right fore up since you entered with the bard.” The strange twoleg said. Roach could see Geralt’s frown as nodded; he hadn’t missed it, she was certain, but she had sought out comfort before he could check her over. Geralt’s hands ran down her leg and Roach sighed. It wasn’t until he picked her foot up, pressing against the sole, that Roach flinched and attempted to take it away from him.

“Stone bruise.” Geralt said as he stood. “She’ll need to take it easy for a bit.”

Roach snorted. She would take it as easy as she wanted to with two idiot  _ colts _ to watch out for.

  
  


  * _Colic_

Jaskier was… different after the lake. Geralt didn’t seem to notice, but Roach knew that Jaskier could talk for hours without truly saying anything. Geralt seemed to care for Jaskier, but Jaskier was not a creature that he could bond with by way of food and gentle words. Jaskier was a spirited colt, one who flirted with all the fillies he could see though he consistently returned to  _ them _ . Their band, their herd. Jaskier would talk the stars out of the sky and yet she knew, she listened, that he never spoke to Geralt about the things he said to  _ her _ .

Geralt did not know of how Jaskier feared for him every time he left to hunt another monster. Geralt did not know that despite the danger to his own body, Jaskier preferred being able to  _ watch _ the fights, to reassure himself that the Witcher was  _ fine _ with his own two eyes. The Witcher didn’t know how once, during a battle that had kept Geralt away for a number of days, Jaskier had pulled out folded, wrinkled parchment and began to cry. He had told her through a thick voice that his father had died, his mother was sick, and though they’d never gotten along well he had still  _ hoped _ for  _ something _ . Roach had lipped at his hair delicately, breathing her hot breath down his neck. Roach knew Jaskier’s worries and joys, his fears and delights.

So when Jaskier was quieter, after he had rejoined them a season or so down the road, Roach took notice. He still spoke to Geralt as easily as breathing, but around  _ her _ he was quiet. Contemplative.  _ Morose _ . She didn’t know how to help him, she didn’t even know what was  _ wrong _ because the most he would do, instead of sharing, was stare at the fire and  _ sigh _ . Roach had tried to wrangle the problem out of him in her own way- pinning her gaze on him, dropping her head to his shoulder, begging for apple pieces that would leave him laughing and rambling. Nothing worked. At least, not while she was  _ healthy _ .

They’d come to a decent sized town with a wyvren problem. She’d smelled it on the way in, and knew that this would be a hunt where she would be left behind. Jaskier - for once - opted to remain behind as well. Geralt had told them both he would be back in three days, ideally, and left. In her stall, Roach had watched Jaskier watch Geralt leave. He had stood there, silent and still, long after Geralt had vanished around the bend out of town. It took her several whinnies to get his attention, and even once she had he simply  _ left _ her with an absent wave.

And so the first day passed quietly. Jaskier came several by to make sure that she was left alone with her hay and water. There were few things that could cause the coltish human to behave like a band stallion, but he had once chanced upon a small crew of men attempting to take their Witcher-based frustrations out on Roach and had chased them out of the barn almost as efficiently as Roach herself could have. It had been another point in his favor, back when she was only just warming up to him. Now, when Geralt left for a few days, Jaskier made it a point to check up on her throughout the day and a couple times a night. Each time he poked his head in he looked thoughtful, and when she would stick her face out for petting he would simply pat her between her eyes (which she  _ loathed _ but tolerated from him) and walk away.

The second day passed quietly in the same manner, but that night it changed. She’d started feeling poorly not long before the sun went down, right after one of Jaskier’s checks. Her food had lost its appeal, and she could only take in so much water before she felt like there was a river within her belly. Her belly started to ache and she pinned her ears irritably, shaking her head. One of the stableboys came by, throwing in a flake of hay, but he didn’t truly look at her. Roach stomped her foot and turned her head to bite at her belly.

By the  _ stars _ she ached. She couldn’t recall having ever felt this before and for a moment wondered if the stable boys had  _ poisoned _ her. She dismissed that quickly- nothing had smelled or tasted off, and that seemed far too elaborate for them to know how to do. And with this, there was nothing  _ she _ could do except hope that it went away.

But it didn’t. Her stomach felt tight and uncomfortable, and no amount of kicking or biting at it helped. Laying down eased some of the tension but not much. Not enough. Food continued to hold no appeal to her, and when Jaskier came for his last check before he slept she had begun to sweat. She hadn’t even  _ noticed _ the bard come in until his voice broke through the haze of discomfort in her mind. That was poor of her- she always greeted him with some noise, as he did for her.

“Roach,” Jaskier murmured with a frown on his face, “have you not eaten, girl?”

_ Does it look like I have? _ Roach thought irritably. There was food left over from that morning, and the flake that had been tossed in for the night feeding was untouched. She could practically feel Jaskier’s fret before he opened her stall door and walked in. From her position on the ground, Roach watched with mild disinterest.

“What’s going on, Roach? You’ve not touched your dinner, and didn’t finish your breakfast, hm?” Jaskier murmured, running a hand down her neck as he looked at her. Her stomach panged and she turned to nip at it before groaning and laying herself down flat rather than resting on her stomach. Jaskier’s clever hands danced along her side, the bard himself leaning over her from her back, and when he pressed a hand to her flank she couldn’t help but kick out despite the fact she was laying down.

“That’s not right. That’s not normal.” Jaskier said, standing. His footsteps walked away a few steps, and then hesitated. “I’ll be right back Roach.” He promised, and then hurried out. Roach groaned again because her stomach hurt  _ worse _ now. She forced herself to stand, kicked at her belly  _ again _ in the hopes of encouraging it to stop aching, before practically flopping into her straw. Jaskier returned a few minutes later with someone in tow, and she could hear him talking about  _ her _ to them. A stranger walked into her stall and Roach turned her head to snap at them. Jaskier chuckled but it was tainted by nerves.

“She was fine yesterday,” he was saying as he kept an eye on her once she stood again, “and fine this morning. I’ve been checking on her all day- the last time I was here was late afternoon, and she was still nibbling on her hay. She eats slowly, when she can. Grazing. But- she hasn’t finished her breakfast, and you can tell she hasn’t touched her dinner at all.”

The stranger ran a hand down her side, and the only thing that kept her from biting him was Jaskier keeping hold of her cheeks.

“Her flank is hard as a rock, and-”

“When is her stall cleaned?” The stranger interrupted.

“Ah, I believe they’re cleaned in the late morning.”

There was a grunt, and Roach kicked at her belly again.

“She’s got one pile of droppings in her stall, so she’s only defecated once since it was cleaned.”

Jaskier swore quietly.

“I- I didn’t even notice. I don’t normally pay attention to that, I- what does that mean?” He asked. Jaskier’s clever fingers were anxiously combing out her mane, and that was one comfort she wouldn’t complain about.

“Horses should defecate around every three to six hours. It’s been at least six hours since her stall was cleaned, and though I can’t say for certain when she dropped this pile it’s fairly dry, so I’d wager it was not long after the cleaning was done. Normally this wouldn’t be too much cause for concern but- between the kicking at her belly and how hard her flank is, she’s quite obviously exhibiting signs of colic. Hard to say how long it’s been going on for, too, given as she’s a bit sweaty.” The stranger explain,  _ their _ hands running all over her body. If she was feeling  _ better _ Roach would have let them know her thoughts on  _ that _ . As it was, she groaned again and dropped to her knees. “Oh, no girl, nope, back up you come.” There was a sharp slap to her butt and Roach forced herself up again.

“Shit- Geralt isn’t due back until tomorrow, at least. What do we- what do I do?” There was a tight panic in Jaskier’s voice, the kind that Roach knew meant he was trying not to show just how afraid he was.

“Halter her and walk her. See if you can get some ale in- she doesn’t appear dehydrated at all, but I’ve cut open several horses who have passed from colic, enough to know that it could be  _ anything _ . Gas, obstruction, or a twisted gut. Walk her around for a while- I’m going to clean the food out of her stall and get an ale to try and help loosen her gut up.”

Which led to Roach having a thick-band halter on her head, one that was just a bit too loose, and Jaskier by her side whispering all sorts of things as they wandered through town.

“Oh, please be alright, my darling Roach.” Jaskier said, hands turning her lead line around nervously. “If you, gods forbid, pass while Geralt is gone, he may take penance from my hide.”

“It’s silly, I know, but when I- Geralt is my dearest friend, but when I saw him with Yennefer I just-” he murmured at one point, his voice heavy. “Was I jealous of him, or of her? I know the truth, of course, he’s become far dearer to me than I thought possible. I fear I may love him, Roach.”

“And I’ve never said anything,” he said later, “because Geralt is allergic to emotions. He seems to truly believe he shouldn’t feel anything, even though he  _ does _ , and if he  _ knew _ , then I… he would leave me behind.”

She wanted to argue, but he probably wasn’t wrong. She also couldn’t speak human.

“He’s ridiculous, and self-sacrificing, and he’s always trying to make things better even though he says he  _ doesn’t _ . And I haven’t told him but I’ve been going back to Cintra, watching his child surprise on her name days and whenever Calanthe holds court, and she is- she is absolutely his daughter, even if they’ve never interacted.” He confides with the moon high in the sky.

She’s feeling better. Not  _ perfect _ , but better. The stranger had said her flank was softer, and after a good hour-and-some of walking, she had pooped and Jaskier had hugged her as though it was the most magnificent thing he’d ever seen.

_ If that was all it took to make you smile… _ Roach sighed.

Though her stomach felt better, Jaskier put himself in her stall to keep an eye on her. He pressed himself into the corner, wrapping his arms around his legs as his eyes began slipping shut.

“I envy you, Roach,” he said quietly, like he was telling her a secret. Wasn’t he, though? “Geralt- he so obviously cares for you. Every injury you get, from a nettle sting to that time you nearly broke your leg… he’s there, watching over you. He’s so soft, gentle with you. I insist we’re friends but… I wonder. It’s possible to call someone a friend without them seeing you as one, isn’t it?” Jasier yawned, resting his chin upon one of his hands. Roach breathed out- Jaskier was blind if he couldn’t tell how much Geralt cared for him. “He’s forever complaining about my music- my singing and my playing. He insults my clothing, the way I behave in court. He complains about my love life, which- well, with as many times as he’s had to bail me safe from the hands of vengeful husbands and wives, I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised.”

Jasker’s quiet for a moment, and Roach thinks he’s fallen asleep. Then he sighs.

“Perhaps, when he gets back, it’s time we separate for a while. He’s got- he’s got Yennefer now, what does he need a useless bard for?” Jaskier whispers. Roach wishes then that she could reassure him, tell him that he wasn’t useless. Jaskier cared for her as well- Geralt was so  _ stingy _ with treats, unlike Jaskier. Geralt had begun taking care of himself better with Jaskier around, because Jaskier pushed and poked and prodded until Geralt cleaned himself up, until Geralt stopped baring his teeth at those who would contract them for work. Jaskier ensured that they were given their fair coin, and that if they  _ weren’t _ then he either wrote a disparaging song about  _ whoever _ had shortened them or made money up by performing in the taverns they stopped in.

Jaskier wasn’t  _ useless _ .

But all she could do was to sigh, and rest her head upon his knees, providing comfort in the only way she could. __   
  


  * _Loneliness_

The silence was as obtrusive as a stone to the head. Geralt was quieter now than he’d ever been before, and with Jaskier  _ gone _ … Roach didn’t think she’d unpinned her ears at all since the bard had stumbled his way from the mountain, past her paddock without Geralt’s presence nearby. Jaskier had looked at her, taking a few steps closer when she nickered for him, for her human colt, and then he had abruptly turned. He had pulled his hand back as though she’d tried to bite him, a sight she was familiar with though it had been a long time since she’d made any attempt against him. And then he was gone, lute in hand and gear on his back instead of on  _ hers _ . Roach had called for him, and called for him, and even when Geralt had come down - much, much later, the sun long gone from the sky - she had called and called and called.

But Jaskier didn’t call back, didn’t return. There was a fracture in her herd, a missing piece, and even though Geralt refused to even  _ say _ the name, she  _ knew _ that he missed the bard as well. Sometimes he would open his mouth, the words  _ “Shut up” _ forming when a bird would whistle nearby, too long, and he would turn as though to berate Jaskier only to realize that Jaskier was not there. Was not the one whistling. And then he would grunt, and tighten his grip upon her reins, and push her into a faster gait.

Sometimes Geralt would wake up at night, the fire low, and he would sigh and lift his blanket, waiting for someone to scurry under it for the warmth of his body. And then he would actually  _ wake _ , his breath changing when he realized that there was no companion to complain about the chill, to beg for closeness and comfort on cool nights. He never said anything, but Roach was not blind to how he would curl up closer on himself those nights.

In towns, she always kept one ear up, listening, trying to find  _ him _ . And though he pretended otherwise, she knew Geralt was doing the same. He would sit up straighter and though his head wouldn’t move she knew he was straining, desperately trying to hear a familiar voice.

He had told her what he’d done, what he’d said, the seventh night without Jaskier. His voice had been rough, his fingers tangling in his mane as though he was not over a century old, but instead a little more than a decade old. Geralt had whispered his mistake to her, Jaskier mentioning the coast, following his desires, and how he had followed them to Yennefer only for her to throw them back into his face. How Jaskier had come up to him, an attempt at lightening his heart, only for Geralt to take Jaskier’s own metaphorical heart and tear it to pieces, stomp on it, and then light it on fire with Igni.

She had bitten him unapologetically when he told her, when he acknowledged what he’d done, and he hadn’t even scolded her for it. He let the wound bleed, looked into her eyes, and they knew - in a way that decades of travel and care provided - that it needed to be fixed. But knowing that didn’t make it easier, and Jaskier seemed to not want to be found. His songs played, but it was never  _ him _ playing them. The music he’d made had been an annoyance more often than not, but now

now, the Path was silent in the way a graveyard was. Geralt fought monsters, took contracts, and kept Roach safe, but there was no joy in it. There was no laughter or teasing upon his return, no food cooking when he came back to camp. Jaskier had fit so smoothly ino their lives that now, without him, they were still able to swim but the waters were just a bit more rough, a bit more swift. Not threatening to drown them, no, but not making it easy to cross.

Roach sighed as she plodded along. Geralt was  _ fine _ , beyond fine. She loved her rider to pieces, had faced down bears and drakes for him and would do it all again without question.

But she missed that little singing colt of hers. She was not alone, not with Geralt, but never before had she felt so  _ lonely _ .

  1. _Family_

Ciri was upon her back. Bless the child’s heart, but she was not Geralt. Her legs were shorter, leaner, and less muscled. Roach knew the cues, knew what she was  _ supposed _ to do, and were Geralt riding her he would have  _ made _ her respect them. He was big enough, strong enough, and stubborn enough to take the lead from her. But Ciri was new, and young, and Roach had  _ heard him _ . They had been walking a rough-hewn dirt path through trees when she’d heard a lute. Geralt hadn’t, distracted by Ciri’s words, but oh

_ oh, _

Roach knew that instrument. Roach knew that voice. She  _ stopped _ , Ciri swaying on her back. Roach’s head was up, her ears pricked, and she couldn’t help but tremble at the noise. A soft whinny-huff left her, a sound she hadn’t made since she had been turned out on pasture with her mother, running back to her after playing with foals her age, content in her size and strength and place in the herd. Ciri was nervous, Roach could feel it, because she knew how to ride a horse, but regular horses  _ were not Roach _ . Geralt had stopped, one hand on a blade, listening as well.

Roach was not going to let him ruin this. Because she could see it- see the moment the voice hit his ears, see the recognition and regret in his eyes, and she knew, she  _ knew _ , that given the chance he would pass Jaskier by. He would flagellate himself mentally, convince himself that avoiding Jaskier was the  _ right thing to do _ , to let the break be the break for them  _ both _ . But Roach knew  _ better _ than him- she had seen the regret in his eyes, in his body after drinking too much at a tavern. She had heard it in the stories he would tell - stilted and short words, but he  _ tried _ \- to Ciri about traveling, about where the songs of him had come from.

Roach moved. She trotted, and Ciri yelped, and Geralt went to grab her reins but she would  _ not _ let him lead them away. She yanked her head away and broke into a canter, and then a gallop, because he did not need her to lead the way to Jaskier. He could find the bard himself, could track the singing, and her hoof prints. He would have to come for her, would have to approach and acknowledge Jaskier, because she was getting old,  _ was _ old, but she knew he would never leave her behind, and she was not leaving Jaskier behind.

Roach whinnied, loud and clear, and Ciri was tense-quiet-scared on her back, gripping the reins and Roach’s mane. Roach did her best to keep to the clearest path, to not jump trees, because she didn’t want to dislodge the girl but she  _ had _ to get to Jaskier, had to see her singing, bright colt again. She whinnied again, and again, and  _ again _ until-

“Roach?!”

She  _ sang _ to him as she came through the bush, as Jaskier approached her. She tucked her haunches down, slid to a stop, and all but smashed her head into his chest. Jaskier yelped, and chuckled, and grabbed her head in a hug.

“Roach, what’re you doing here? Why are you-  _ Ciri? _ ” Jasker looked up, up away from her, to the pale, shaking girl on Roach’s back. “Ciri are you- what happened?” He approached the girl, and though Roach wanted to dance to the side, to get his arms around her head again, she let him grab Ciri by the waist, let Ciri grip the bard’s arms, and dismount from her back before moving. She tucked her face into the space between his arm and torso, whickering softly. Ciri clutched Jaskier tightly.

“Julian! I- I don’t know! We were walking along, quiet and all, and then she just- she put her head up and Geralt tried to grab her but she was  _ gone _ . And then she came here!” Ciri answered.

“Geralt?” Jaskier repeated, voice a tenuous mix of hope and dread, and Roach huffed. There was an obvious, dramatic crack- a branch breaking, an obvious making of noise, and she lifted her head to see Geralt standing behind a bush. He looked sheepish, quiet. But he also looked irritated, and Roach lifted her head imperiously and snorted. She had no regrets of her actions.

“Geralt.” Jaskier said, still holding Ciri, who was sniffling into his rather plain doublet. The cub of Cintra turned her head to look at her father figure, taking in his stance.

“Jaskier.” Geralt replied. He sounded- lost, but found. Like a band reuniting, soft and tender, breathy. Hesitant but pleased. “Jaskier, I’m-”

Roach sighed happily into Jaskier's hair. This would all work out.

**Author's Note:**

> Roach Injuries:  
-Slightly embedded halter: Roach's former owner did not have Roach in a large enough halter and did not take it off, so it ended up on the cusp of her flesh growing around it. Geralt got her out of that before it could happen, though.
> 
> -Hind leg cut: some assholes who want to hurt a Witcher Just Because try to permanently lame/hobble Roach and so try to cut her tendon on her back leg. Though her leg gets cut, there's no permanent injury.
> 
> -Stone bruise: the most mild. Roach steps on a rock or a root, trips, and ends up with a mild stone bruise.
> 
> -Colic: Roach gets a belly ache.
> 
> -Loneliness: Roach misses Jaskier's presence, misses that part of her herd.
> 
> I've had first hand experience with all of these EXCEPT the halter (thank goodness). My gelding is the King of Injuries, bless his heart. He can walk across the finest sand and end up with a stone bruise and be lame for the next two weeks. I love the bastard.
> 
> >Was that ending lazy? Yes. In my defense? It's 2 am and my sight is blurring.
> 
> >Don't post this anywhere off of AO3.


End file.
